


Hubris

by Witete



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Amnesia, Angst, Canon Divergence - Weirdmageddon, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Language, Major Character Injury, Mind Games, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, Weirdmageddon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-07 16:57:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7722520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witete/pseuds/Witete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A continuation of Laughter, an AU in which Mabel dies in Bill's hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Family

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of my work Laughter which describes the direct aftermath of Mabel's death and up until Stan's deal.  
> This was requested by WhisperOfTheDay. Thank you for requesting- this has been fun to write!!  
> Mild Journal #3 spoilers.

 

When those three words escaped that mouthless being, it sent cold ice dripping down Ford’s back. Those words sealed down the sense of finality. Those words, filled with sadistic glee, his voice high in a giddy shriek, were the final nail in the coffin- the bloody bullet in the head.

Those three words echoed inside his ears, like a shepherd’s tone on replay. It burned inside his skull, making the plate in his head hum with pressure. His heart was beating wildly in his chest and his entire body burned with stress, pain, exhaustion and, most of all, guilt. It burned hotter than the manacles that had trapped him. It boiled more than acidic blood that had nearly blinded him a decade ago. It festered, rotted a hole inside his chest where every other feeling should be.

But those three words.

“It’s a **deal!** ”

This should not have happened. Ford couldn’t contain his small yelp of terror when Stan reached for the demon’s blue tinged hand. Their fingertips brushed and before Stan could change his mind, Bill sealed it, his had constricting Stanley’s.

Stan was visibly shaking, trying his hardest to put on one final façade- one final show. Bill probably mistook it for exhaustion and pain, which was undoubtedly at least one of the factors, but Ford saw so much more. Terror, horror, but most of all, hate. Anger seethed through his face, hardening his mouth and clenching his jaw. His unoccupied hand remained clenched by his side and the handshake was tight, like he wanted to crush the demon where he stood. Ford had seen hate boil through his brother before, which was, undoubtedly, towards him. When Ford emerged from the portal and greeted him with nothing but open arms and love; just what seemed like moments ago where Ford just _had_ to correct Stan. But unlike those times, the hate was complicated by other emotions. Complicated by feelings of confusion and worry and need and love. Never had Stan’s hate been unbridled and alone. It was always complicated.

Not this time.

It sent chills down Ford’s arms seeing the shadow that seemed to age him a hundred years and the anger that almost seemed to turn him red from the inside out. Stan was _shuddering_ with fury and Bill was _relishing_ in it.

The hands never shook. They stayed attached, the two parties equally angered, but in polar opposite ways. Bill released a low chuckle and the fire dissolved. A dull, cracking grey slithered up the demon’s arm, his fingers releasing Stan from his grasp. Stanley jumped back in fear as the grey completely enveloped the triangle and just for a split moment, the world was silent.

Stan locked eyes with Ford and time froze entirely. Ford swore, in the deadly silence, that he could hear Stan’s heart pounding blood and adrenaline through his body. Ford swore he could hear his brother’s shuddering breathing and popping knuckles. _One chance_ , his eyes seemed to say. _One chance to rip that bastard apart for what he did to my kids._ Those eyes, glinting brown behind the thick rimmed glasses, widened suddenly. Ford would be lying if he said he didn’t cry out in a final bout of desperation when the eyes glinted yellow and the pupils elongated. It was only for a split second before his brother gave a sound, akin to a gasp and his eyes rolled back into his skull. His legs shook and he slid to his knees. His body gave one final shudder of fury before it relaxed. His chin fell to his chest.

The silence stayed and Ford wished it hadn’t. This silence was nauseating and pulsing. The air around him was thick and the humming from Bill was slowly vanishing as the energy had entered his brother’s mind. This silence made his head reel with fear and terror and pain and guilt. Capital G- Guilt.

The tendrils loosened and he fell forward, the pain of his head smacking against the bricks distant and muddled. The world swirled before his eyes and the edges of his vision started to darken. His breaths escaped him in laboured gasps, each one sending waves-no, hurricanes- of pain through his body. His head pulsed and his chest was numb, burning in a way that was intense and painful, but not all at the same time. Everything hurt.

_Get up. Wipe his memory. You have to. Please. Please. I’m begging you, please._

His mind screamed at him, the little voice that had been at the back of his head for thirty years, urging him to survive, stay on task and do what needed to be done. Now, that voice was even smaller. It’s begs were weak, like it was dying with him. It was a breeze, trying as hard as it could to be a tornado, screaming and crying and begging him to get up and wipe the memory. Die later- he could die later. Do this for Stan.

For Mabel.

_Please._

He released a pained cry that made his dry throat boil. He wasn’t sure he meant to look- certainly, it was the last thing he wanted to do, but for some inane reason, he did.

His sobs only strengthened.

The sight was grisly. He couldn’t look, but he was and he couldn’t look _away._ The plea strengthened.

Dipper was bent in over his sister, his arms cradling her upper body in his lap. His face was bloodied and flushed and tears painted his cheeks; crude stars against a crude sky. If it wasn’t for minutes previous, someone would’ve mistaken the small girl for sleeping. She looked bruised and battered and a gash on her calf bled, most of it clotted by now. Her eyebrows were scrunched, like she was concentrating and her mouth was slightly ajar, her braces reflecting blue off a nearby cage.

If it wasn’t for minutes previous, Ford wouldn’t know she was dead. Her heart stopped and her breaths vacant, her smile like a dream. Something stirred inside Ford’s chest; it bubbled, festered.

_Please._

He couldn’t physically cry anymore. Dehydrated and minutes before unconsciousness or death, whichever came first, he was drained of everything except for pain and exhaustion and Guilt.

Guilt. This was his fault. He tried to bring his leg under him in an attempt to stand, but his muscles refused to move without burning. His abdomen seared at the exertion and he simply collapsed again, his mild pulsing and screaming and _dying._

Guilt. He summoned Bill. He let Bill use his mind. He built the portal. He didn’t heed Fiddleford’s warnings. He called Stan here. He burned his brother. He punched his brother. He hurt his brother. He drove the kids away. He ignored his brother. He killed Mabel. He killed Mabel. He killed Stan’s pumpkin. He killed Dipper’s half.

He screamed in pain as his brain assaulted him. His hands fisted in his hair and he pulled, the pain making the darkness around his eyes increase. _I’m better dead I’m better dead Stan should’ve left me behind that portal he doesn’t deserve a shitty brother like me._

_Please._

The beg this time was louder now. He could almost feel the last of his brain’s energy collecting, yelling at him with the rest of his strength and get the _fuck_ up. To stand and do what they had agreed to do. It’s all he was good for anyway. He didn’t even realize his leg was shifting under his stomach again. He could die later. He could collapse and die when the job was done. He was on his knees. For Mabel. For Stan. _For Mabel. For Stan._

_For family. For family. Please._

He groaned as he finally _finally_ managed to stand and his legs felt useless beneath his body. Cloth brushed against his wounded body and his shuddering breaths turned to gasps. Another voice, a separate, softer, oily one penetrated the space between him and the begs.

 _Lay down,_ it whispered. Ford hated _hated_ that he actually paused after taking one laborious step towards Stan. He felt his knees quake harder.

He had heard this voice before. Always it was louder and stronger than the one that urged him to survive, to keep going. This one was sickly sweet, dripping with lavish promises and tranquility. Give up and die- that’s what the voice urged. He was hurting and the voice offered a way out that required nothing but one simple action- acceptance.

Ford shook his aching head, trying to dispel the intrusion. He took another step, pain screaming through his legs.

_Join me. The dark is quiet and safe. You’ll be safe. You can rest. Join me._

_Please!_

“Family.” Ford breathed, shattering the voices inside his head. How the air somehow got quieter, he didn’t know. All he knew was that he was taking another step towards Stan.

And another.

The pain grew stronger and with it, the dripping voice returned, right on the edge of his ears. _Death is right here. I’m here, waiting. Don’t make me wait. Join me._

His leg crumpled under him and he crashed to his knees, as if a sudden weight had dropped on him from above. The pain rocketed through his thighs and into his torso.

_You’re so close._

The thought entered his head as two separate pieces. The oily dark around his eyes whispered it louder, more demanding. It urged the darkness forward and dulled his senses more. The pain became distant again and his mind fogged over. The second voice, a smaller voice, sounding similar to a piece of family breathed beneath the oil, keeping the small orb of light remaining in his vision. It said the same thing, but urged something different.

A single step in front of him was Stanley, his eyes moving underneath his eyelids. His breathing was steady and his fingers twitched. His face was smooth and his mouth was gaping slightly.

The small voice said it again and the light split through the darkness even more.

_You’re so close, do the job you need to do._

_You’re so close, lie down and join me._

When his fingers found the gun in his coat, the voices finally ceased. Finally, the world was silent. He pulled the memory gun from the coat and, with shaking hands, turned the knob on the side, spelling the name _Stanley Pines_ in bold green letters. He aimed the gun, the barrel centered down his brother’s forehead.

He wanted to shut his eyes. He didn’t want to see himself hurt his brother one last time. He released a rough laugh and he looked down, the laugh turning into a choked sob. The last thing he wanted to do now was hurt his brother. His finger tightened on the trigger. The last thing he wanted to do was make Stan forget. The last thing he wanted to do was leave him alone, scared and with a big fucking white blank where _he_ should be.

Ford had to use his second hand to push down the finger on the trigger and released another choked cry when it did.

There was nothing dramatic about this gun. No loud sound, no knockback. It was just a wash of painful blue light and a low warbling of radiation as it was ejected from the bulb.

It was only about five seconds.

Those were the hardest five seconds of his life.

When the seconds released his hands, the gun dropped to the floor with a metallic clang. Ford, with a shuddering breath and his vision a dark grey, turned to his brother. The light of the gun radiated around his head like a cloud for a few seconds before dissipating. The light and life seemed to return to Stan’s face.

For the first time in a long time, Ford finally saw Stan give a real smile, deep in the recesses of his dream.

The dark itching at his eyes became unbearable. The pain was there, but distant, the gaping hole in his chest burning with Guilt.

 _Join me,_ the voice hissed one final time.

He complied.


	2. Error

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If any of you need individual chapter warnings, don't hesitate to ask!

“No, no, no, _no!”_

Stan couldn’t’ help but crack a grin as the triangle gasped in terror. The blue fire slipped beneath the oak door, casting a harsh glint across the entire room. The fire crackled like it was real, but emitted no heat. It sent tingles of energy through his non-corporeal body and the effect of numbness was instant. The world’s colours seemed to wash in a white blue, the memories being swept away faster than the signals in his body. The triangle’s eye bulged and his pupil was shriveled to a paper thin slit. He took a shaky step backwards, trying to avoid the flames. His hands rose to his two upper angles and they grasped his thin body. His claws grated against his yellow form, white lines scarring it.

“Oh yeah,” Stan growled from his spot on the chair, watching the blue flames calmly as they ate and tore at the walls of his mind. “You’re goin’ down. You’re getting’ erased.”

The demon swiveled on him, his eye widening even further, if that was even possible. His little body was trembling and his hands clenched and unclenched around his body, his claws clicking against his form in terror. His eye stared at him, the pupil quivering and his yellow blinking in panic.

“Memory gun,” Stan sneered, standing. The sudden movement made the skittish demon take a few faltering steps back, stumbling over his own feet. He never took his eye off the old man. “Pretty clever, huh?”

The demon blinked and his knees started to shake.

The flames were spreading fast, crawling towards the center of the room where the pair was standing. The ceiling was starting to fade to white, flickering and glitching against the fading colours of the rest of Stan’s mind. The flames seemed to emit a low hum now, like the dull vibration of a bee’s wings. The flames did not cause Stan any pain, but as they came closer, Stan could see the panic increase in the demon’s eye. His black arms twitched when a flare flicked too close and something akin to a groan escaped him.

“You-“the demon gasped finally, his arms extending towards Stanley in an attempt at bargaining. “You idiot! Don’t you realize you’re destroying your own mind too?”

“Eh,” Stanley shrugged, making the demon reel back in shock. Stan cracked a grin again, relishing in the triangle’s terror and pain. It was about time. After everything the little fucker’s done to his family it seems right, symmetrical even, to be cocky in his face; to spit and snarl and smile at him, bragging. Stan had conned the oldest, smartest conman this universe (and possibly more) had ever seen and it made pride pull at his chest. Even though Stan knew his mind was getting erased at the very second, he somehow wished he could never forget this: when the conman conned the conman.

“It’s not like I was usin’ this space for much anyways.”

And there it was: the automatic feeling of self-loathing he knew so well. It was disguised as blatant disregard that, using his mind to rid of the bastard was nothing to sneeze at- everyone would’ve pointed their fingers at him to do it anyways. Ford was too smart, Dipper was too much like him and Mabel-

_Mabel._

“Let me out of here!” Bill shrieked, turning on the heel of his foot to face the door he had sauntered into just a few seconds ago. He was gripping his angles so hard permanent stress marks were forming on his thin body, white scratches forming on him like chalk on a board. He took a brave step towards the fire, nearly throwing himself into the blue flames. He reached out. “Let me-“he cried in pain as the fire kissed his claws. He jumped back again, shaking his hand. His hands flew to his angles again and when he spoke again, it was higher and beginning to crack into hysteria.

“Why isn’t this _working?!”_

Stan was not listening to the demon’s cries; not anymore. He should be laughing at the demon’s attempts to escape, gloating and bragging that whatever he tried, he could not escape this blue prison. He should be spitting at the demon, kicking his angles in and ripping his stupid eye out of his stupid face. But he wasn’t- he was frozen on the spot, staring at the middle ground of the fire, swearing he could see her face in the flame. He felt his body tingle as the name screamed across his mind again.

_Mabel._

_Mabel._

_You…you killed…_

His momentary hypnosis was short lived as the latter thought fired a bullet through his heart. He swore the fire flared in the room as the fire flared in his heart. Anger overcame him again and his fists clenched. His nonexistent heart pumped and his breathing hardened. He stared at the breaking triangle shivering in front of him and a full wave of seething hate overcame him completely.

“Look at me!” he roared, his voice making the crumbling walls quake around him. The little demon froze. His hands stopped grasping at his angles and his legs locked, bent beneath him. He did not turn.

The edges of Stan’s vision turned blood red, roses blooming on the edges of his eyes. “Fucking _turn around_ and _look at me_ you one-eyed _bastard.”_ The yellow polygon shuddered again and slowly turned on his heel. His pupil slid up to meet Stan’s eyes even slower. A pure sense of hopeless terror filled the demon’s gaze. His pupil was no longer slit thin, but blown wide. Faded images flickered across the white of his gaze for a moment before a faded purple took the place of them. The new colour was stark against his complimentary body.

“You must think you’re a real wise guy, huh?” Stan seethed, the flames blooming again. He held the demon’s gaze, any ounce of fear that may have existed vanishing and being replaced with an emotion of raw, blood red. The demon did not answer. “But you made one fatal mistake- you messed with my family!”

Stan leaned in closer to the polygon, making the shape stumble back as far as the flames would allow. When the demon winced in pain, Stan kept going until he was a scant inch away from him. The demon’s pupil was almost circular from how blown it was and the purple in his eye swam like snakes. His form had begun to glitch, colours that did not belong to him screaming across his body.

“You killed my little girl.” Stan spat in his eye. The demon didn’t even wince, not from that anyways; his eye was staring dead at Stanley, as if just glancing away would kill him instantly.

“Please,” the demon said breathlessly, his knees finding the ground. Stan would’ve smiled at the gesture, but he was too consumed to even bat an eye. “Please I’ll give you anything! Money, fame ri-“

Stan did not let him finish.

His fist met the demon’s eye and the force threw him into the door behind him. The fire blossomed again and the demon screamed.

“No!” Stan screamed back as the demon stumbled out of the fire. Chaos shuddered across his body; colours and forms and symbols that Stan couldn’t even begin to imagine. He was bewildered and terrified beyond anything Stan had ever seen before. “No, you don’t get to beg! You don’t get to bargain!”

Stan struck the triangle again and there was a sharp sound, akin to the screech of metal being bent. The demon cried out again, his hand flying to his now caved in left side. The punch had completely put his form off kilter. His left side was bent at an angle, destroying his triangular shape. It was jagged and unclean, jutting into his previously straight sides. The stress of the break caused his right side to tear at the tension simultaneously, fissures crawling across his body. Stan thought he heard the demon scream apologies at him before he struck him again in the wound.

And again. Then a kick for good measure.

The demon howled in pain and grew a few feet taller in a feeble attempt at defense. It was a horrible mistake. His bent angles screeched in protest and his fissures grew, crackling like ice across his thin body. Black insides slithered between the cracks, coating his yellow body in a slimy black goop. His glitching increased, doing even more damage to his already withering body.

The room was almost completely white at this point and the flames were mere feet away from the two. The lightheadedness did not prevent Stan’s hellfire on the demon.

“Axolotl!” the demon screeched as Stan laid another hit on him, straight into where his chest would be. Stan swore he saw tears glaze the polygon’s eye, but he didn’t care. All he saw was red.

“Axolotl, please! _Please I’m sorry please!”_

Stan did not hesitate. He kicked the demon again and held him down with his foot. He didn’t register the punches landing. He didn’t register the demon’s last screams for mercy. He did register the sharp sound of shattering glass and bright strobe lights that filled the air around him when his fist met the demon’s eye.

He sat for a moment breathing heavily as if he was exhausted, though he didn’t really feel tired. He stared at the spot on the floor where the demon lay, shattered into millions of yellow pieces, glinting green in the blue atmosphere. They vibrated with energy and some still flickered with shattered symbols and intense colours.

The red around his eyes began to disappear.

Stan suddenly released a shuddering sigh and his shoulders sagged. He fully knelt on the ground, watching the fire calmly. His anger washed away in those few moments, replaced by serene satisfaction and a hole in his chest.

The pieces under him burnt like wood in the fire.

Bill Cipher was finally gone; dead.

“Heh,” Stan laughed softly, hanging his head and watching the room fade from the corners of his eyes. His head became light, the roaring blood in his ears a small hum, lost in the grasp of the fire. A familiar sense of weight settled in the pits of his stomach, constricting and enlightening at the same time.

 _Finally,_ he thought, almost bitterly.

“Guess I was good for something after all.”

There it was again; the thought boiled in his stomach like a fever burned the skull. Writhing, burning and itching its way into his fake smile. The man who ruined everything he touched- the mistake finally did something worthwhile. The words sounded like his father’s. Still, the itching wouldn’t leave- he still wasn’t satisfied and as the fire closed in around him, the hole gaping even further. This would’ve never happened if he had just _listened._ Who was he to second guess his better-than-every-way brother? Why could _Stanley Pines_ think he would be able to fix his mistakes? The damage was there- the damage was done and there was nothing he could do. Destroying that triangle fixed _nothing._

It didn’t reverse the damage Bill did to Ford

It didn’t reverse the nightmares Bill gave the kids.

_It didn’t bring Mabel back._

His laughter turned into something darker. _Who was he kidding?_ There was _nothing_ he was good for. There was _nothing_ he blamed Ford anymore for- it was all him. His mistakes brought Ford to this fucking town.

If he had _listened._

If he had never reopened the portal. If he had left like he was told to. If he had just let the fever induced from the burn take him to the dirt. If he had let Columbia drown him. If he had never touched Ford’s experiment in the first place.

If he had never been born.

Yeah, it would’ve been better if Ford grew up without a fuckhead for a twin.

An error in the system; a faulty piece of equipment.

A mistake.

 _Stanley Pines,_ he thought. _No matter how hard you try, you can never get it right, can you?_

He paused.

_My name’s Stanley, right?_

_Or-_

_Or is it Stanford...? Or Andrew?_

He blinked, the darkness closing around his head light nightfall dulling his mind.

He didn’t know and for some reason he felt _thankful_ he didn’t know.

The hole gaped wider as he slipped into blackness.

 _Probably better if you’re forgotten anyways,_ were his unconscious thoughts as the fire brushed against his skin.


	3. Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ends a bit suddenly, but the last one should tie in all the loose ends.  
> Enjoy!

The faint sound of birds chirping caused her to rouse. She did not open her eyes, however. The nightmare had completely drained her. All she wanted was to fall back asleep and hope they did not return. The sensations that surrounded her were most definitely favourable; the sun was warm on her cheeks and the grass beneath her legs was soft and it smelled like morning dew. There was a slight breeze, carrying the scent of bloomed flowers and pine from all around her. A familiar sensation of arms around her made her sigh warmly, snuggling into the embrace. As her nose pressed to the hugger’s chest, her brows furrowed. The flowers and the pine had a sweet, homey scent- like when you open a window and all that fresh, summer air comes in, making your shoulders sag in serenity. The scent she had buried her nose into was indeed sweet, but the wrong kind. It wasn’t like early morning hot chocolate or delicious cupcakes that never had enough icing, this was an uncomfortable sweet.

She blinked open her eyes against the sunlight filtering kindly between the leaves of the trees. It took her a moment to adjust before her eyes focused on her hugger. Their face was buried in her sweater and they were curled, almost protectively, around her. Her eyes widened when her gaze fell upon the spot she had buried her nose into. It wasn’t their chest she had nuzzled; it was the space between the neck and the shoulder and it was coated with blood.

She gasped suddenly as her eyes fell upon the torn, ragged clothes and the pine tree hat, all dotted with the dark red liquid.

“Dipper,” she gasped, shifting herself to hold him in her lap. She sat up and turned his head toward her. She released a gasp; one was relief that she could hear ragged breaths escaping his lips and the other was horror. His cheeks were flushed red, tear stains contrails against them. A bruise had formed on his jaw and cuts lined his neck and head. His hair was drenched with sweat and it fluffed up when she removed his hat. She tousled his hair, trying to rouse some kind of reaction within him.

“Dipper, c’mon. Wake up, bro-bro.” she whispered. She continued running her hands through his hair until he started to move a little, his eyebrows scrunching. Her hands moved to his shoulders (gently as to not aggravate any wounds she couldn’t see) and shook him into consciousness, all while breathing encouraging words to him.

After a few more minutes, he finally cracked his eyes open and blinked against the soft sunlight. They remained unfocused for a few seconds, trying to adjust to the new stimulus. When his eyes finally seemed to actually see, they flew open when they landed on Mabel and before she could even fathom what happened, she was lying on the floor again, surrounded by vivid green grass and daisies. She let out an ‘oof’ as her brother fell on her, squeezing the life out of her.

“Mabel,” he was gasping over and over, sobbing into her hair, his hands fisting in her sweater. Despite her momentary confusion, she hugged him back with all her strength (albeit not too much), burying her head into his shoulder.

“Mabel I’m s-so _sorry-_ I…I th-thought yo-u,” Dipper hiccupped, his body shaking in her arms.

“S’okay, Dip Dop,” she murmured into him. “I’m here- I’m okay. We’re okay.”

He didn’t seem to hear her.

“He- he ki- _killed_ you; I s-saw it.” He gasped, pulling away from her suddenly as if she was poisonous. He searched her eyes frantically, tears spouting from his red rimmed eyes.

That’s when it all came back to her. It felt like she couldn’t _breathe as she was held twenty feet in the air, black claws pricking in her sides. It seemed her uncles were miles below, their faces screwed with fear, horror and pain, their glasses reflecting the bright blue of the cage they were put in. Dipper squirmed next to her, pounding the demon’s fist, his breaths coming out in heaving, whimpering gasps._

_“I think I’m going to kill one of them, just for the hell of it!”_

_Both twins had begun crying at point, fighting with all the remaining strength they had against the hand that was getting tighter by the second. Mabel screamed for her uncles, begging them to do something even though the little voice in her head said there was nothing they could do; Bill had won and there was nothing they could do._

_When he started counting down, her eyes met Dipper’s. He mirrored her flawlessly; blown eyes, shaking body, borderline earthquake tremors, and the look of utter, sick hopelessness. It wrenched deep inside her chest to see her brother, her twin, looking so defeated and so mortified in the hand of this monster. Mabel figured she probably looked very similar, because, almost simultaneously, they turned and faced Bill, the red in his eye blinding both twins._

Begging, _her mind told her, resorted. But she couldn’t get her mouth to move. Her lips were sewn shut by fear, as if they just barely parted, he would kill her instantly. Dipper seemed to have a similar fear; his mouth was ajar unlike hers, and his throat was throbbing. Small sounds escaped his throat, but they did not pass as words._

_The red blinked away for a fraction of a second and the pine tree vanished from Bill’s massive eye, being replaced with a shooting star._

_Mabel’s wordless cry for mercy and shock hurt her own ears and made the tears slip down her cheeks a lot faster. Her struggling increased, but the demon paid her no mind as his voice boomed across the world. Dipper was screaming as well, kicking and punching the hand, trying to slither free of the hand’s deathly grip._

_The pine tree reappeared._

_The demon’s voice boomed._

_After a few seconds, Bill’s eye blinked normally for a moment, staring directly at Mabel. Her shaking body suddenly got cold as the pupil contracted to a paper thin slit, shuddering in ecstasy. Her sobbing ceased, replaced with ice dripping down her spine as she stared into that eye, a deep pit of hopelessness and a terror so intense, she could barely even feel it. Emptiness swirled inside her chest and she stopped breathing as the triangle seemed to sneer before his eye changed._

_The shooting star._

_Instinctively, she swiveled her head to Dipper as Bill screamed._

_Pure terror struck Dipper’s face and he went to shriek._

_There was a loud popping sound and the lights blew out, encasing the room in a pitch black._

_The sound left her ears and she felt weightless, like she had been flung into space._

_And then_ she woke up.

“Dipper,” Mabel gasped, encasing her twin in another backbreaking hug. “I wa- oh my god, I was _terrified.”_

“I know, I know.” Dipper cried into her shoulder, borderline yelling.

“I _died_ Dipper!” Mabel screeched, the waterworks in full force, her mind and chest gaping in a pure sense of horror. It had felt like a dream, the whole thing; just a weird, lucid nightmare. She _wished_ it was.

“I _know!”_ Dipper screamed, not angrily, just terrified out of his wits. “Bill h-had us and we- we tried to fi-fight-“

“How am I _alive?!”_ she screeched, not letting Dipper finish his thoughts.

“I-“ Dipper gasped breathlessly, the tears choking him. “I don’t know!”

“Why does the world look _better?_ Like hell never even _happened?”_

“I don’t know.”

“Where’s Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford?!”

“I don’t…”

They sobbed into each other, hugging the life out of each other, asking questions none of them had the answers to. Impossible questions with even more elusive answers. It was torturous.

Mabel had no inkling of how much time had passed before their sobs turned into hiccups and their hiccups turned into laboured breaths. Eventually, they fell into silence, exhaustion wracking their small bodies.

They never let go of their hug.

“Hey, uh, are you kiddos okay?”

Both twins jumped to their feet, whirling around to meet the person who spoke gruffly behind them. They met the eyes of their Great Uncle Ford. They didn’t even register that they ran into the arms of their uncle, hugging his waist, their eyes watering over again.

Mabel, however, noticed that Grunkle Ford stiffened under their arms, his arms held stiffly at his sides. She narrowed her eyes and looked up, searching his face. Any other day, he would’ve swooped them up and embraced them like there was no tomorrow. They would push up against his chest and would listen to his heartbeat as he hummed softly to them. He was no Grunkle Stan, but Ford would never hesitate to protect them against the hell they had endured; which is why Mabel moved away from him when his face screwed up with confusion.

Dipper turned to her, confusion blatant on his face. He looked up at Ford and back at Mabel before he moved away and joined her by her side, staring at their uncle with apprehension.

“Um,” he said awkwardly, in a voice that wasn’t Ford’s.

Mabel and Dipper exchanged a shocked glance.

“I didn’t mean to startle you or anythin’.” _Stanley_ muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, almost shamefully.

“Grunkle Stan..?” Mabel breathed carefully, reaching out for her Stanley in _Ford’s clothes._ “Why..why are you wearing your brother’s clothes?”

Stanley’s expression shifted deeper into confusion as he looked down at himself, picking at the bloodstained trench coat. He screwed up his nose in shock and disgust as the heavy scent of gore hit his nose. He reached to take off his gloves, but paused, staring at his fingers. He peered at the small children in front of him. “I have six fingers?”

Mabel bit her lip to keep from crying as the words struck her point blank in the chest. She had no idea what was wrong with her uncle and why he was wearing Grunkle Ford’s clothes and why Grunkle Ford was nowhere to be seen. Dipper shuddered beside her and stepped up to their uncle(?) and grabbed onto a finger of the glove. With slow movements, he removed the article, the stuffing of the sixth finger falling gently into the grass.

Stan blinked and inspected his fingers again, waggling them. A small, confused smile etched onto his face. “Oh hehe. That’s…interesting.”

“You didn’t answer my question Grunkle Stan.” Mabel said suddenly, her voice tinny. He regarded her gently, in a way that was _almost_ Stanley, but that blank look of wonder and confusion completely threw her off.

“What did yo-“

“Why are you wearing Ford’s clothes?” Mabel said desperately, cutting him off. Tears spilled from her eyes, her voice quaking with fear and confusion.

Stan look a step back, an actual flicker of fear igniting in his dark amber eyes. It made Mabel’s stomach sink to her feet. The thing that her uncle said next sent her to her knees and it left her grasping at the tufts of grass. She was too exhausted to say anything else, but just cry in agony. She barely even managed tears.

Dipper fell beside her as the words “Who’s Ford?” left Stan’s mouth, hugging her around her shoulders.

“Oh jeez, I’m so sorry kiddos.” The stranger sighed guiltily, shuffling on his feet. It seemed like he wanted to sit down and hug them, to try to do what they had wanted him to do a minute ago, but he couldn’t conjure up the nerve.

Mabel was glad he didn’t. As horrible as that made her feel, as wider as that thought made the gaping hole in her chest, she couldn’t handle the thought that someone had replaced her uncle with some ignorant doppelganger.

The thought that her uncle couldn’t remember where he was, who they were or who his _brother_ was, made a horrible sense of unease and pain slither through her like venom through her veins.

“Mabel,” Dipper murmured softly into her hair after a minute. Stan shuffled on his feet, his eyes distant at the air behind them.

“We need to find Great Uncle Ford- maybe he knows what’s wrong.”

 _Wrong there’s nothing wrong with our Grunkle Stan,_ Mabel wanted to say, but she was not a liar. It hurt for her to lie, unlike Stanley who lied through his teeth. Wrong seemed like such an intense word, but it wasn’t, well, _wrong._ Something was _off_ something was _incorrect_ something was _broken._

 _No,_ Mabel thought, her thoughts finally running away with her. _Something was_ wrong.

“O-okay,” Mabel said, sniffing. She stood up with the help of her brother and she made eye contact with her uncle.

“Can you help us find someone?” Dipper sniffed, his voice borderline begging, as if this new Stanley would cast them aside.

“O-of course,” Stan-not-Stan agreed, seeming somewhat elated to be of use to them.

The thought made Mabel shudder.

Dipper nodded, releasing a breath. “Okay, he’s probably going to be dressed in a black suit with a red fez, given that you took _his_ clothes.”

The last part of Dipper’s explanation bordered on accusing, but Stan either dismissed or didn’t catch it.

“Would he be nearby?” Stanley asked, moving past them and looking around, shuffling past bushes and peering around trees.

“I, uh, don’t know.” Dipper said, following Stanley apprehensively. Dipper kept a firm grip on Mabel’s hand and guided her after him.

“Probably,” Mabel offered softly, dragging her feet across the grass.

They searched for a long time, or at least Mabel perceived it as so. Dragging her feet seemed to drag time as well, making her clock tick by agonizingly slow. She did help search, but she was so physically and emotionally drained to do anything productive.

Or so she thought.

She thought she had tripped on a root. When she recovered from her fall, she searched for what had caused her to trip. It was not a root- it was a boot.

A boot connected to a leg that vanished into nearby shrubbery.

She let out a shout of shock, Dipper instantly by her side. Stan came along much slower, staring at the foot as if it may bite him.

The small twins exchanged a glance and pushed the brush away, prickly leaves pecking at their skin.

After a few agonizing moments, they could see the pale face of their Great Uncle Ford, clad in Stanley’s clothes, just like Dipper had predicted.

But something was wrong.

There. That word again. _Wrong._

He was _too_ pale. _Too_ still. _Too_ bloody. The wound on his head was _too_ large.

The memory gun that lay beside his hand was _too_ incriminating.

And the way his pulse fluttered in his wrist was _too_ faint.

_Wrong. Why was everything wrong?!_


	4. Security

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I figured I'd warn this last chapter for mentions of suicide and self-loathing.  
> Also I figured that I'd make this chapter super long!!  
> Enjoy!

When the voice had coaxed him into death, he had expected to stay there. When the dark washed over him like a crashing wave and he felt the weight of death finally push down on him, he expected to remain in the darkness forever. Whether he was alive and thinking or not, he didn’t care; the Guilt made accepting it easy. But now that sentience was beginning to tear through the darkness, he wasn’t sure what to think.

There was definitely pain; that was tick number one that he was actually alive and not in some limbo he wasn’t sure he believed in. It was odd though; familiar, but uncommon. The pain had distance, like it was happening to someone else; happening to another poor, broken soul with no way out. Though it was distant, he could definitely feel it; in fact, there was not a part of his body that wasn’t aching with the dull, but pulsating pain.

It reminded him of when Bill had gone too far when he was in his captivity. Each death was excruciating, sure and waking up wasn’t any better, but this trip from the dark was different- it seemed simple.

Quiet. Yes, it was quiet. It was quiet and simple and calm. It certainly wasn’t something he was used to.

All the hell that rained down upon him for the past forty years came crashing down into silence. Things like that didn’t just happen, not to him anyways. Silence was always shivering and pushing, trying to move through the feet of accumulating stuff he would hesitate to call snow. Silence was trying to not gasp for air and legs burning from running for too long, trying to hide from claws and teeth. Silence was the empty rooms, bound by steel bars, the grating sounds of chains rattling inside his head. All in all, silence was not good; aware or not, it spelled doom.

Awake it meant hiding, not breathing a word, averting your eyes. Don’t let them find you. Keep your mouth shut. Don’t fight.

Unconscious it meant that he may not wake up again. Maybe someone would come along and crush his head in and steal his supplies. Maybe the last thing he would see would be the gun to his head.

He was in a state between the two and they were intermingling, sending mixed signals through his brain. Stay low, no, you’ve got to get up, get away. No, find safety-hide. Call for help? Play dead?

He didn’t know. The gap between reality and fantasy was thinning and he had nothing to hold onto. His own breath sounded too brittle, too nonexistent. The world around him was numb and thick, cotton filling the space between his ears. He felt nothing beneath him, but he didn’t feel suspended either. Each opposite was fighting, struggling for control and he didn’t know which one to feed into. Alarms were going off inside his head, but he couldn’t distinguish them anymore; it was all white static. Every sense was away from him. His body was too heavy, but too light all at once. The pain and the Guilt pressed against his chest like a weight and that’s all he could truly feel. His gut wrenched distantly. That was nothing to hold onto; it simply pressed him further into the limbo he had found himself in.

The silence was truly deafening.

Then, there was something. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, but it wasn’t like the other sensations. Past the pain, disassociating, more pain and Guilt there was something- a spark of light through the oil. It wasn’t enough for a fire, but it wasn’t small either. A shudder coursed through him, the gap starting to thicken again.

The spark came from his arm, by his shoulder. It had rippled through his neck and chest, peeling him further from the blackness. For a split moment, the pain paused its assault. Instinctively, he leaned towards the spark, sensing familiarity with the small flame. The flame continued to spread, but not unpleasantly; after feeling cold and lifeless for so long, the warmth blooming in his chest was a welcoming alternative.

Then, the true silence was broken.

There it was, distantly but at the same time close, a small whisper. There were no words to the breeze, but the bass of the sound assured him that it really was there and not some delusion. Silence enveloped him again and the flame suddenly left his shoulder. A sound shattered the thin air and it took too long for him to realize it had come from his own throat. The sound burned through his larynx and his throat tightened from the pressure. There was another whispering breeze and the flame returned, this time to his right cheek. He felt the rough, but gentle texture of it and leaned into it even further, finally finding something to latch onto.

Somehow his hand that he could barely feel moving came into contact with the flame at his cheek. His fingers pressed into the warmth and the world started to ease back into reality.

A hand. The flame he found was a hand, cupping his cheek gently, easing him back into life.

Finally, after minutes of quiet mutters between the hand and him, he finally blinked his eyes open.

It wasn’t hard to, but it certainly wasn’t easy either. Opening his eyes meant finally escaping the voice; finally escaping the death that he had fallen into. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. After all the hells he had endured over his life, there was nothing more that he wanted to do besides finally sleep.

Sleep had been hard for the past forty years. Well, no-more like his entire life. The older he got, the harder it got to stay awake and be okay. When he was little, being awake was fun. The world was full of beauty and wonder that he wanted to explore over and over again. When he was in college, being awake was worth it; the grades he got were worth the sleepless nights and coffee highs. When he was in Gravity Falls, sleep was wonderful again. It was full of magic and knowledge and beauty. Then, sleep was a nightmare. Sleep was nothing he could fall into. When he slept, his guard fell. Coffee and pain kept him through days of sleeplessness. Sleep was only ever granted through alcohol percent.

After years of running from it, protecting himself from it, sleep was something he wanted to enter and never leave; death or otherwise.

But he supposed he wanted sight more than he wanted sleep and he finally opened his eyes. The world wasn’t quite as dark as the world inside his eyelids, but he appreciated the similarity. Through the fuzziness, he could make out dark shapes looming around the space, but he was too exhausted to mind them too much. To him, the space was either benevolent or malevolent and he wasn’t sure he cared.

After a few moments, the shapes began to clear, becoming more and more distinguished and familiar.

He was in his room, first of all. The soft light filtered through the boarded windows and the prism on his desk twinkled brightly. A gaping hole in the ceiling creaked and dust and leaves flitted through it. The scent of smoke and gore was distant in his nose, but masking that was the scent of summer; the fresh dew of early morning or late evening was sweet and the thick aura of pine centered him slightly. The more he concentrated on the sweets of nature around him, the more it pulled him back into reality and out of the limbo he was so sure he had fallen into.

But with that also came the unpleasantness of it all. Primarily, the pain that undulated grievously inside his core grew stronger. He could feel the remnants of the scorching burns across his neck, wrists and ankles. His heart burned inside his chest and his stomach inflamed. His eyes smarted in his head and the plate shuddered unpleasantly. He tried to shift slightly, but found that moving made the pain only increase.

Secondly, the scent of gore, smoke and rubbing alcohol became more pronounced, no matter how hard he tried to dispel it. It somehow made his throat go dry and each shuddering breath he drew seemed to filter out the pleasant scents he had enjoyed not more than a minute prior.

Thirdly, it made the sudden sense of reality punch him in his already aching gut. He had survived; somehow, beyond even his intelligent mind, he had survived. There was that and also the fact that he was _here_ and not _there_.

There: Locked inside Bill’s prison or penthouse or on display like his own fucking mistake. The tables had turned; _there_ he was mockingly worshipped, mockingly touched, mockingly revered. Bill had known that was what he had wanted for far too long; he was quick to supply that, but, like Bill always did, he added his own ‘special’ spin. Hissing and mocking and laughing because he _was_ stupid; he _was_ arrogant; he _was_ and ally, whether he liked it or not.

It _was_ his fault and Bill made sure he never forgot it. The portal was his Guilt; his trust was his Guilt; his family was his _Guilt-_ they were made vulnerable because of him and it so easily could’ve cost them their-

Their-

_Their lives._

A sound, akin to that of a sob, rippled from deep inside his throat, tearing past his tongue.

It already had. Mabel was dead; Stan was gone; Dipper was stricken- all because of him. That one split instant when he shook his hand for the first time was the red string cut from his entire life. The string between Stan and him had been weathered and worn and seared by unpleasant memories, but they were still attached- only when his hand grasped the blue flame was when he unconsciously decided that the red string was better fit for someone else- someone who would be a family that he wished he could have. Then the string got tighter and tighter and the red got darker and darker and more electric- until it finally snapped. It left him flailing for structure, for netting to save him from himself. He was a spider, held by the silk and held over the fires of hell, dangling tauntingly by Bill’s hand. When Bill finally let go, he had watched him burn, withering and scrambling in the flame until a second hand reached through the flames and offered its palm. Looking now, what kind of creature would deny the hand that could save him? What kind of bastard creature, writhing in the fire of death, would turn their nose up to a saviour?

He would. And he did. And he paid the price.

Not the price of falling through the portal, no. Deep down he knew he was wrong the entire time, but his prideful tongue would have a hard time admitting something like that. No, he deserved the portal. What he didn’t deserve was _family_ \- the thing that continued blooming, ignorant to his existence. Maybe that was why he was truly mad at Stanley for bringing him back, to _family._ His hubris had caused his own fall; he flew too close to the sun and the last thing he wanted was for family to crumble because of him- nobody deserved anything like that. Well, aside from him he supposed.

But it was too late. He had brought them down with him.

Something inside him curled its nasty hands around his heart. Maybe he should’ve just said ‘no’ to Stan’s plan- maybe he should’ve just taken Bill’s deal. Desperation was an understatement; the last thing he wanted was for his family, his red strings, to boil and burn at his own mistake. Bill would’ve had the world and would’ve had him, but at least his family would be safe. He couldn’t decide if it was selfish or not, but he resolved that he didn’t care.

If he somehow deserved life, this horrible Guilt-infested life, why didn’t his family deserve it?

Why did his family have to suffer because of him? Stan should’ve listened, not to prevent the rift, but to prevent his brother’s life.

Ford survived. For thirty years, he survived. He should not have survived. The first week he was without food, crawling through a hot, seven-sunned sky, practically a shambling corpse. When night had come, the measly weapon was under his own chin, his finger pressing the trigger just enough to hear the bullet lock in the chamber. He didn’t have the guts; it was too surreal.

He lowered it.

He should not have.

He shut his eyes and another sob rattled through him, pain shuddering through his chest. He didn’t care; the memory kept playing inside his head. He felt, foolishly felt, that if he wished hard enough, the finger would’ve pushed the trigger just a _little_ further. Maybe if he fucking _wished_ hard enough, the shadows that moved around his vision would pull a trigger for him because apparently he was too selfish to do it himself.

“S’okay, buddy, c’mon.”

There was that whisper again, just on the edge of his hearing, but this time there were words. His self-loathing thoughts quieted and the memory paused, consciousness leaking back into his mind. He blinked his eyes open again and the grey shadows that had taken reign just moments ago changed and shifted into colour and shape. It was still fuzzy, but he assumed that could be for a multitude of reasons. The shape closest to him was white and black and a deep maroon. Shadows danced across the shape until a face peered from the fuzziness in his eyes.

The face gave a gentle, but hesitant smile. “That’s it; you’re okay.”

“Lee,” Ford breathed in shock, his voice barely audible, even to him. His throat boiled at the effort, but beside everything else, it was manageable.

The face reeled back slightly and the smile faltered. His face softened in a way he had only ever seen a few times before, but there was an edge to it he couldn’t quite grasp. Maybe it was Ford’s own eyesight, but Stan’s eyes seemed just a little bit lighter than they usually had been, as if untouched by the hell he had endured for forty years.

“Look,” Stan said hesitantly after a moment, suddenly averting those eyes away and to someplace else. Ford resisted the sound that wanted to tear from him when the flame moved away from his head, his hand following it lethargically.

“Try not to move or say too much. Yer really hurt,” Stanley said quietly, his hands moving slowly above him. “I cleaned and wrapped some of them on your neck while you were...out, but I went kinda fast and they may not be, you know, up to par.”

Ford blinked at his brother, his hand moving to his neck, as if triggered by the word. Sure enough, any clothing, his brother’s or his own, was gone, replaced with slightly damp bandages. The smell of rubbing alcohol filtered through the wraps and he suddenly became conscious of the same feeling around various other parts of his body.

He was covered by a thick, soft blanket, tucked gently around the sides of his legs. To be honest, the warmth underneath was beginning to make him sweat, but he was not ready to expose himself to the world again so soon. He could feel socks and pants still clothing his legs, but his boots were gone. Under the socks he could feel the bandages surrounding his ankles, the burns itching up a storm. He could feel more around both of his wrists and a large one constricting his abdomen. The largest bandage finally gave him a hint as to why his brain was pounding as much as it was. It was secured tightly around head, the left side of his hair sticking and matted to his face. The stinging of the alcohol suddenly seeped into his consciousness, making him unintentionally wince.

“May I?” Stan’s voice split the space between the pain and the world around Ford. He peered at Stan, rather surprised that he felt he needed to ask to tend to him when any other time, he would’ve told Ford to shut up and let him take care of it.

The longer the silence dragged on, the more it looked like Stan’s expression didn’t belong on his face. Everything was too soft and too nonjudgmental, all things considered. The lines on his face made him look him younger, but older at the same. His careful frown drew his face downward, but his questioning eyes and brows brought light to him. It was a weird paradox, Ford considered, but gave a small nod nonetheless, consenting to Stan’s care.

Ford studied his brother’s face as he worked on peeling the bandages away from Ford’s neck. Stanford grimaced at the pain and Stanley grumbled at the sight of the wounds. They both winced as more disinfectant was applied and clean bandages applied. This process was repeated across Ford’s entire body and in that whole time, Ford was growing more and more suspicious of his brother.

The first major sign was when Stan went to remove the bandages from his wrist and he caught sight of Ford’s hands. At first, Ford thought that Stan was furrowing his brow in concentration, but as his hands moved on automatic and his eyes barely moved, Ford realized this was not the case. Ford recognized that look inside and out and it made him squirm ever so slightly. He always got those looks when people shook his hand in greeting; they would blink down at his hand and their smiles would drop ever so slightly, no longer reaching their eyes. For people who were a little bit more expressive, they’d narrow their eyes and purse their lips, maybe turning his hand in their own as if to examine his extra digit. Stan was never one to do that so when he scrutinized Ford while fixing his bandages, it made him curl his hand into a fist ever so slightly. Stan jolted as if on a live wire and resumed his task with precise delicateness.

The second major sign was when Stan peeled the blanket down to change the wraps on Ford’s abdomen and paused. Emotions of varying degrees flickered across his face, the first and most prominent one being horror. Ford felt himself reel back ever so slightly at Stan’s sudden intake of breath, his head pounding in response.

“What is it?” he found himself asking in a broken tone, Stan whipping his head around to see him with stunned eyes. Stan, faster than light, schooled his gaze and released a forced laugh. “Ah it’s nothin’.” He assured (read: tried) and turned back to Ford’s torso, his eyes narrowing back in response. Ford felt fingers graze the spot on his abdomen, but not quite where the bandages were. Ford recognized the spot where he touched; it was an old scar, made by an alien who did not appreciate being stolen from. In his defense, Ford was half starved and very ill; he needed those meds.

Once the bandages were replaced with clean ones, Stan released a quiet chuckle and Ford noticed that he was staring at a spot near his head. “All star?” he chuckled softly, quickly noticing Ford’s stoic, rather confused glance and he turned away, becoming increasingly distraught as he fumbled with the disinfectant.

Any other time, Ford would’ve rolled his eyes and grumbled at Stan, but the two words, his pitch raising with the question mark, made Ford’s throat close.

Before Weirdmageddon had even started, Stan had caught a glimpse of the tattoo. Ford had been downstairs, tearing that portal to pieces when Stan had come down. After hours of working, even the cool basement had become hot with effort and seething hatred for Bill, for himself, for even Stanley. Ford had taken his sweater off without a second thought and cast it aside, completely forgetting that Stan could still come down whenever he deemed it worthy.

Stan had scared the pants of Ford when he had greeted him bluntly, dropping the plate of food on his desk. Ford had been working, hunched over his journal at said desk and had whirled around in a panic only to find Stanley staring at him, a similar flicker of emotions rocketing across his eyes. Instead of horror as the primary reaction, he had scoffed.

“Are you fucking kidding me? ‘All Star?’” Stan bit, that shit-eating grin curling across his cheeks. “That’s gotta be at least number four on the top silliest things I’ve ever seen; and that’s saying a lot- I’ve lived with Mabel for the whole summer.”

“Thank you, Stanley,” Ford had said, the grin he gave in response nothing short of snide. At the time, Ford had relished in the way Stan’s grin had slid off his face, leaving his face hard. At the time, he had also ignored the way regret curled inside his chest at the way it fell too.

“You may leave.” Ford dismissed spitefully, turning back to his work, ignoring the heat rising in his neck. Stan huffed behind him and shuffled out after a few more seconds. In those seconds, he felt the atmosphere around Stan change from joking to dark and bitter as his eyes swept over Ford.

Now, Ford wanted nothing more than to see that true recognition in his brother has he scoffed at the silly mark.

The last major sign that something was truly wrong was only after the bandages had been changed and Stan was looking in the middle space, his eyes lost in thought.

“Is it true?” Stan blurted after a moment, gauging Ford’s rather perplexed face. Ford opened his mouth to ask what he meant by that before Stan continued, fiddling with the corner of the blanket.

“I mean,” Stan shook his head. “The kids, Dipper and Map-Mabel told me about you-“

_Oh. Oh no._

Ford felt his heart stop. He should’ve applied the signs faster. If the memory gun had actually _worked_ of course Stan wouldn’t remember that he had six fingers; if it had _worked_ of course Stan would be shocked by his scars and amused by his tattoo; if it had _worked_ of course Stan would stumble on the kids’ names.

“-are- are you actually my brother? My twin?”

And if it had _worked_ of course Stan wouldn’t remember who he was.

Ford found himself nodding before Stan even finished his thought.

“Then-“ Stan stiffened, staring at Ford, his eyes concerned and lost. “-then why can’t I remember?”

Before Ford could even try to answer, Stan reeled back, his previously bright eyes suddenly starting to darken. “Why is there a massive white fucking blank in my head? Why is it whenever I look at you I can’t tell if I hate you or love you? Why is it whenever the kids say ‘Grunkle Stan’ like it’s my fucking _name_ and I feel nothing towards it? Why did the _pig_ of all things bring back images that I feel like I should know, but I just _can’t fucking place?!”_

“Stan,” Ford chided gently, past the sob that was rising in his throat. Stan paid him no heed; instead, he raised his hands and pulled at his hair.

“Why do I _feel_ the colour yellow? That shouldn’t even happen! How am I here and not _there?_ Prison. Why do I see prison?! Why do I feel like that I’ve made a massive fucking mistake, but I don’t know what I even did?”

“ _Stanley,”_

 _“_ Why do the kids call me a hero when I’ve been nothing but a no-good, waste of sp-“

_“Lee!”_

At Ford’s voice Stan stopped his tangent, staring at Ford with wide, frightened eyes. Ford swallowed his pain and Guilt and reached to pull Stan’s hands from his head. Stan let his hands fall with Ford’s, but he balled his hands into fists, his nails pricking at his skin.

“Listen to me, okay?” Ford hummed, catching Stan’s watery gaze. “I know you’re frustrated. I know you’re upset and confused, but please understand that you are absolutely _not_ a waste of space. You are not a mistake; you _are_  a hero. You saved the world and took revenge o-on someo-one who…who took so-someone we l-loved.”

At this point, Ford could not stop the emotion from seeping into his voice. He didn’t think he could elaborate on that ‘someone’ if Stan were to ask.

“Yeah,” Stan sniffed in agreement. “The kids say that too; s’just so hard to believe th-“

“ _Kids?”_ Ford suddenly caught on as the word finally filtered through his head. Looking back on the conversation, he realized very dumbly he had missed the clue the whole time. But, that couldn’t be real…

_Right?_

“Yeah,” Stan said again, peering curiously at Ford’s shocked expressions. “The boy and the girl; they’re twins I think?”

“Bring them in.” Ford demanded breathlessly, his pulsating anxiety and shock causing him to sit up against the couch with an excruciating amount of pain. He hissed through his teeth and Stan reprimanded him for the sudden movements. Ford didn’t care; as much as he hated ignoring Stan’s pleas to lie back down, he had to see them with his own eyes. Stan left in a hurry, eyeing his brother worriedly as he moved through the door.

After about a minute that felt more like an eternity, Stan entered the room again. Behind him, hand in hand, were the two small twins, bruised and battered with their eyes like saucers as they stared at Ford.

In a blur of pink and blue they rushed up to Ford, collapsing on the spaces next to him, hugging the hell out of him. Ford grasped at both of them, pulling their small bodies close to his chest, whispering apologies and comfort to them. They sobbed into him and they clutched at his shoulders like it was the last thing they’d ever touch.

Stan stood close by, watching them carefully, muted sympathy colouring his gaze. Dipper removed himself from Ford’s side and went to grasp pleadingly at Stan’s hand. Ford took the moment to completely envelop Mabel in an embrace. He kissed her head and stroked her hair, rocking her from side to side. Hearing her breath in his ear and her heart in his arm seemed to make his physical pain wash away.

“I’m so sorry,” he found himself saying, barely able to keep himself contained. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry.”

“What happened?” Mabel breathed into his neck, peeling away to stare at him with her large, watery eyes. Then, she lowered her voice. “Why did you erase his memory?”

“He destroyed Bill,” Ford managed, tucking her hair behind her ear. “He’s our hero- he’s _my_ hero.”

He could see questions swirling inside Mabel’s eyes, but she simply gave him a watery smile. “He remembered our names.” She tried hopefully.

Ford gave a small, hopeful chuckle. “He did, princess. He certainly did.”


	5. Dimitte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BAM! Because it ended so suddenly, mind as well do a little epilogue to tie up things a bit more.  
> This is technically outside the AU, but honestly, I don't care.  
> Enjoy!!!

When the Stans finally set off for sailing, it was like a massive weight had been taken off Ford’s shoulders. Getting Stan’s memory back had taken a week’s time with lots of stories and scrapbooking and home videos that Ford was surprised he still had. It was still spotty, sure, but better that than nothing.

When Stan’s memory had fully returned, Ford was still recovering from his wounds. He could walk and move fine, but writing had proved rather difficult with his injured wrists and eating was sometimes a hassle. Stan had nursed him as best as he could, but there were some things that even Ford could not do- only doctors at a hospital could.

Ford made it clear that he did not want to be fussed over by some doctor who would more than likely question how a frayed wire could cause that much damage. But, surprisingly enough, by the time they set sail, Ford was nearly one hundred percent.

He was glad too; he didn’t want to make Stan worry about him any more than he usually did.

On one of the first nights on the boat, they finally had The Talk; where they laid everything bare and vulnerable. They apologized to each other, but that eventually turned into a measurement of ‘who has the most guilt, capital G: Guilt’.

Needless to say, it ended with the both of them trying to ease each other of their self-loathing, but alternatively placing the Guilt upon themselves; it was a cycle of pain and watery eyes and emotional tears, but it was something. The one thing they could easily agree on, however, was that they were glad they were together again, on better terms.

Not perfect. No, never. Ford didn’t believe in perfection and after sixty-some years, perfection was certainly something he _wasn’t,_ no matter how much he wanted to believe the one who would tell him that. Ford was glad to see that Stan didn’t believe in such a thing either; that and God, which to both of their defense, had not shown anything short of mercy through both their lives.

They didn’t need perfection, or God or even destiny; they just needed each other and, if Ford was being completely honest with himself, that’s probably the only thing he ever needed in his entire life.

When Stan had left his life at the hands of an angry father, Ford didn’t know, but a piece of him had left with him. Fiddleford couldn’t fix the piece. Bill couldn’t fix the piece. Even The Oracle couldn’t fix it.

Only Stan could fill it again.

And all it took was a little forgiveness.

Dimitte-  _to forgive_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by WhisperOfTheDay!!!  
> Thank you very much for requesting!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Request things for me to write in the comments below.


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